Of Curtsies and Hugs
One night, when it was the girls' bedtime, Bertie excused himself from the commotion that seemed to be forever going on around him now, and slipped upstairs. He had scarcely seen his daughters since the day of the Accession Council, and something was weighing on him.
He went into Lilibet's room just as the nanny was putting out the light, and quietly motioned her out. In the darkness, he sat down on the edge of the bed.
"Papa?" asked a drowsy voice from the pillow.
Bertie reached to brush the soft hair back from Lilibet's face. "Just come up to say good night," he whispered. "Are you and the ponies ready for the move?"
"I think so." He caught the note of reserve in her voice.
"Lilibet, I want to t . . talk to you about something," he said abruptly. "When we're in private, just the family—you needn't curtsy." He flinched a little at the memory. "In fact, I'd rather you didn't," he added, in a lower tone.
"But Grandfather liked us to," the child said, dubiously.
"Yes . . . I know."
"So isn't it right?"
Bertie continued to stroke her hair as he thought. The last thing he wanted to do was confuse his conscientious little daughter.
"You see, Lilibet," he finally said, "there are two kinds of kings."
"Two kinds?" Lilibet asked wonderingly.
"Yes. One kind prefers curtsies. . . ."
"And the other kind?"
Bertie slid an arm under her shoulders and raised her up so he could gather her to him. "And the other kind," he murmured in her ear, "prefers hugs."
He felt her arms go around him and hold on tight. "Papa . . ."
"Yes, darling?"
"I'm glad you're the other kind."
Bertie smiled in the dark. "So am I."